Heavy in Your Arms
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: John would rather die than go with Moriarty. Would Sherlock give him one last favor, however heart breaking? AU OOC One Shot. Set after TGG. Suicide.


**Hello! This is a one shot, random AU, OOC fic for Sherlock. Again, I think that Sherlock and John are bit OOC here, but that's my opinion! Okay, trying not to give to much away, there is a suicide at the end, not graphic, but if you're not up for that sort of thing then don't read! Please R&R, but above all, enjoy!**

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Heavy in Your Arms

Sherlock felt tiredness seep through him like mould. He fought it, oh, how he fought against it; like his life depended on it. Not that he anything to fight for now. His whole was worthless, more than it ever had been. His whole point of living, his raison d'être, was gone, snuffed out like a candle, and it was his entire fault. He punched his frail fist against the kitchen table, knocking over the cold cup of tea which Mrs. Hudson had carefully placed there hours ago. He watched, unmoving, as the now empty cup rolled onto the lino floor, shattering into a million pieces.

He didn't want to live anymore. He felt the energy drain from his body as he finally admitted it to himself. Ever since the... accident, his brilliant mind couldn't function properly, to weighed down with grief. This was why he never let anyone in, he thought bitterly. They slowly let you in, you love them, and then their gone. Every bloody time. Life was so much simpler before this caring lark, before he had met...John. He hated himself then as he felt tears well in his eyes. It was weakness, a bloody weakness, which he shouldn't feel. He was above all this; he was Sherlock Holmes, self pronounced sociopath for Christ sake!

And worst of all, stupid Lestrade wouldn't even give him a bloody case! Even if his mind wasn't functioning right now, he needed the work, otherwise his brain would rot. Bloody Lestrade had said Sherlock needed time to grieve, but that was exactly what he didn't bloody want! Anything was better than this emptiness he was feeling. It was the worst kind of emptiness; the emptiness of loss.

Just then, his body could take no more of it. He had been awake solid all of the week; he hadn't eaten, and had had only two drinks of water practically forced down his throat by the damnable Mrs. Hudson. The grief was only an extra load. He felt his head fall towards the table, and it made a resounding crack as it impacted. He had been dreading this moment, the moment where he would fall asleep. He chided himself then, he was after all, perfectly in control of the situation, he didn't have to let himself dream if he didn't want to. He hated dreams, even the good ones. No logic in them whatsoever. Completely nonsensical, and that was what Sherlock hated most.

He was in control here. He didn't have to dream.

But we both know that's not quite true, Sherlock.

As he heard that familiar voice, he knew it was too late. He'd begun to dream. And it wasn't just any dream; it was the memory of the accident at the pool, the one that had been haunting him since, the one that made him scream every time it replayed in his head. And he knew who's voice that was. It was Moriarty's.

He was swept away from his semi conscious thoughts, and dragged away to the sickening memory of that fateful night. He became aware then that he was standing in the corner of the swimming pool, and he saw his past self, holding the gun, standing in front of Moriarty, and John standing next to him. The bomb was lying across the room, behind the group. Obviously after Sherlock had flung it off John then.

"I'm going to burn the heart out of you Sherlock," Morairty uttered cheerfully. "In front of your very eyes." He pulled out his gun dramatically, smiling.

"No! Not John! Take me, kill me, I don't care, just don't hurt John!"

Sherlock cringed as he heard himself beg. What had possessed him to do that? But already knew the answer to that. He had to try and save John. And he had failed.

"Now I don't usually like to get my hands dirty," Moriarty smiled at Sherlock. "But I think I can make an exception for tonight."

"If you kill John, I blow all of us to hell!" Sherlock pointed his gun at the bomb.

"Now I don't think you'll do that Sherlock. We both there are worse things I could do to John than kill him." Moriarty's eyes lit up. "In fact, that's not a bad idea."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I'll think you find that I would Sherlock. You mention one of the ways I could hurt John, I could do it. The list is endless, rape, torture..." Moriarty grinned. "You know I would do it."

"Sherlock, I'd rather die." John looked up at him pleadingly.

"Ah, the pet speaks, finally! So, Johnny, think Sherlock's going to kill you?"

"I want to die."

"John," Sherlock silently pleaded with John. "I could track him down, rescue you. He wouldn't have a chance to do anything to you."

"We both know that wouldn't happen Sherlock." Sherlock saw the stubborn look in John's eyes. He didn't have a hope of changing John's mind. "You heard what he said. He got rid of all those people, paid out £30 million for a fake painting so you could 'come out and play'. If he wanted to disappear, you could never find him. Face it. I'm dead whichever way you choose." He looked pointedly at the bomb. "Don't choose that option."

"I can't kill you John. I'd rather die first."

"Well you can't very well kill us all, can you? At least if you kill me, you might have a chance to track Moriarty down."

"But I could kill him now!"

"Yeah, but what would be the fun in that?" John knew him to well.

"No John. I'd rather die with you than kill you."

"Boys, really I don't have all day."

Sherlock decided then. He pointed his gun at the bomb.

The bomb wasn't there. Sherlock felt a sickening feeling in his stomach. Moriarty giggled gleefully.

"You'd really think I'd give you the option of blowing us all up? Seriously, Sherlock, I'm not that stupid." He smiled smugly.

"What's to stop me from killing you right now?"

"Nothing really. Except you and Johnny boy wouldn't make it out of here alive. Quite handy having a few snipers around actually. Every home should have one." He laughed. "Now if you don't mind, I had better be going. With Johnny boy, of course. Come on doggy!" He pointed at John, who was looking desperately at Sherlock.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, fucking kill me! You want me to suffer what I'm going to go through? I'd rather die a dignified death, when I'm still in one piece, preferably."

Sherlock looked undecidedly at the gun in his hand.

"Please Sherlock." John looked up at him.

"How can I live with myself?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm really sorry. But I don't want to spend the remainder of my life with him." He looked at Moriarty's smug face.

Sherlock glared hatefully at Moriarty. He knew he could never let that bastard have the pleasure of mutilating John. Never.

"John, I'm so, so sorry for this." He aimed the gun, and fired. John smiled gratefully, looking calm and peaceful as the bullet hurtled towards him. Sherlock felt the silent tears roll down his cheeks. He'd just killed the only person he had ever loved. Seeing Moriarty sneering smugly, the anger over flowed in Sherlock. He aimed at Moriarty, and pulled the trigger, damn the consequences.

As the bullet hit the smiling John in the chest, Sherlock screamed from the corner of the room. He only had a chance to see the second bullet hit Moriarty in the head before he woke up, sweating, his forehead clammy, hands shaking, the scream dying on his lips. Never again would he dream, he promised himself. He knew what he had to do.

Walking towards the draw, he momentarily thought of leaving a note. He dismissed it instantly. Why should I have to explain myself, when the reason is perfectly logical and clear? He had killed the only person he had ever loved, after all. And who would he have to explain himself to? No one in the world cared for him, except one, and he was dead, thanks to him.

Pulling out the gun, he placed it to his head, and pulled the trigger.


End file.
